


Harvest

by formalizing



Series: Tumblr Writing [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Pre-Stanford, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: Sam is sweet fruit coming into season, and Dean has sticky fingers.





	Harvest

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on Tumblr](http://all-these-formalities.tumblr.com/post/175390713314/green-as-spring-at-fifteen-sams-growing-into) with a [follow-up fix-it](http://all-these-formalities.tumblr.com/post/175393125704/why-must-you-hurt-me-and-make-me-love-it).

Green as spring at fifteen, Sam’s growing into long limbs like vines--thin and fragile, ready to wither with the first sign of frost. His fingers stretch out toward Dean like he’s the sun, like body heat might make him grow.

Weekend drives down back roads to the edges of open fields, treeline dotted with bushes full of berries as wild-growing as Sam. He keeps an old slushie cup to hold his early harvest, plucked from a plant that is still more blossoms than fruit--small, firm, and not quite ready.

Split open and sprinkled with sugar, barely-blushing berries go drippy and sweet all the same.

Grass-stained feet tucked into Dean’s lap, stretched out across the backseat with the windows down to let in a strong wind that promises rain. Sam eats his tiny, tart treasures until his mouth is soaked with the juice of them. 

Dean slips his fingers around an ankle, stroking the bumps of brittle baby-bones as he slides up to the knee, slipping inside the holes frayed into jeans that were once his own. Sam lets his legs fall open, creates an inviting space for Dean’s fingers to creep up between his thighs, for the rest of him to follow as the sun dips lower in the sky.

Cool fingers sneak up under Dean’s shirt, spread wide against the skin of his lower back, pressing, urging him closer.

“You’re warm,” Sam murmurs when Dean’s weight is settled so firmly atop him that there’s barely breathing distance between them.

“We should get back,” Dean says.

Sam hums, says, “Just a few more minutes?” like it’s even a question.

Dean’s fingertips offer the obvious answer, sliding unhurriedly back into already windblown hair. Sam sighs contentedly with lips going full and open as that first bud bursting into bloom--brushes them slow across Dean’s jaw, his chin, lingering kisses so innocent at just the corners of his mouth. Dean imagines he can taste the hint of strawberry in the damp left behind.

The sun hits the horizon, turns everything the same sunset pink as Sam’s lips, and Dean tastes more than just a hint when Sam finally opens that messy mouth to his.

Summer-sweet sixteen and Sam’s gone tall with the heat; a climbing plant in search of a trellis, twisting tight around Dean anywhere he can get a firm hold. He’s beautiful in season, soft-limbed and hard-eyed with a sweet, stubborn mouth.

Becoming a creature of extremes, he does nothing by halves. He’ll play a song he likes on repeat until he can’t stand it, read a book until the spine is so broken-in and faded from his hands that you can’t see the title.

His obsession with cherries starts in late June, when the roadside stands with colourful rows of fresh fruit start popping up. He eats them by the bagful rather than the handful, popping the stems and spitting the pits from them until he’s got a stomach ache.

By mid-July, Dad won’t stop at those stands anymore. He says they’re too expensive and doesn’t relent even when faced with Sam’s cold shoulder treatment, the displeased, downward twist of his mouth; it’s always been Dean who falls quick victim to that pout.

He doesn’t manage to get him the fresh cherries he loves, but when he swipes a jar of maraschinos on a grocery run, Sam’s eyes light up all the same. He pours them out into a bowl, gleaming neon bright, more candy than fruit, and crawls into Dean’s lap with his prize, eats until his fingers are stained with greed.

Sam’s got a cherry syrup sugar mouth and Dean’s always had a sweet tooth.

“Open up,” he tells him, gently tugs with his thumb on the line of teeth to get a better view. That red-stained tongue is only too willing to lick at whatever Dean will give it, trembles as he strokes it with two fingers, curls up tight under them when they’re deep enough to make Sam’s tonsils clench wetly around the tips. 

Sam’s eyes are as damp as Dean’s fingers by the time he pulls them back.

Barely-pink spit slick spreads to Sam’s cheek as Dean grips his chin, murmurs, “Stick your tongue out--yeah, just like that. Lemme have a taste.”

It’s Dean’s turn to be greedy, now, sucking the flavor from him, chasing it into the heat of his little heart-shaped mouth as he drags him closer by the hips. He licks it from teeth and gums like he’s never tasted cherries before, like there’s not a bowl of them in arm’s reach, sickly sweet smell of them heavy in the air.

They taste better from the back of Sam’s throat, sweeter when he’s whimpering into Dean’s mouth.

Maybe the reason dad doesn’t stop at those roadside stands has less to do with the cost of Sam’s obsession and more to do with the cost of Dean’s--the way his eyes don’t stray far from Sam at any given moment, fingers itching, twitching with the need to touch him. Sam’s tying his brother up in knots as sure as he can tie a cherry stem in his mouth.

His lips are a whole new shade of red when he slides down to his knees between Dean’s legs, says “My turn for a taste,” as he works Dean’s jeans open with hands that shouldn’t be so familiar with his big brother’s zipper.

Dean doesn’t have to tell him to open up, and soon enough, cherries aren’t the only taste on his tongue.

Seventeen brings the autumn urgency of warm, ripe fruit in need of harvest; for every kiss or touch or moment that Dean steals, it feels like another drops to rot, gone too long in the sun.

Sam gives easily to the touch, curves so eager to display the fall foliage colors of red blood sucked to the surface, yellow and green of faded bedroom bruises under thin skin. He’s not satisfied until he’s got the proof of Dean’s hands all over him.

Dean’s not sure how long he’s been fucking him. Long enough that Sam looks fuck-drunk around the eyes and his hair’s gone flat from the pillows and Dean’s fingers and the weight of sweat at his temples. His dick is so well-used that the tight drag of Sam’s hole around him is just this side of painful, each clench of Sam’s body and thrust of his hips aching under the pleasure. He’s lost track of whether he’s come two times or three, can’t say for certain if he even has it in him to come again.

But Sam’s got his knees and arms tight around him--pulled so close at the mouth that Dean can feel the heat of each “Oh god, _Dean_ ” gasped against his lips--so he’s definitely going to try.

Slow but steady, they pant and claw their way back to the edge, losing all sense of rhythm and just getting lost in the feeling of shared body heat and the smell of each other’s skin. Sam shakes apart with his mouth wide open and Dean’s teeth at his neck. Dean fucks him through it, focused on the desperate quality of his whines, the way his breath hitches each time Dean presses back inside.

“One more,” Sam murmurs, breathless and exhausted, almost slurring against his ear. He’s pressing kisses blindly wherever he can reach, like Dean’s the one that needs to be gentled through it. “Just one more. For me, please?”

He gets there, in the end, spills inside him one more time and stays buried in him as long as he can manage, until Sam’s legs finally go boneless around him and let him pull free with a wince and a groan from both of them.

Shameless, Sam takes Dean’s hand and guides it down to feel where he’s sore, stretched to a tender red, wet as a skinned peach between his legs.

Dean licks his sticky fingers clean; fruit gone heavy with juice is always a little messy when you put teeth to it.

Some days he’s not sure if he can still tell where Sam ends and he begins, if they’ll ever be able to separate without destroying one or both of them. He always did fall too deep in love with things that could destroy him--a fast car on an open road, cheap liquor burning all the way down, and the way his little brother says ‘please’.

Destruction comes soon enough with the wintery chill of eighteen, distant silences and secrets of a plant gone dormant, eyes looking down a road Dean can’t follow. September brings the word ‘goodbye,’ devastating as an early cold snap. Sam heads where sweet fruit is always in season, leaves Dean behind with the kind of bone-deep chill that even too much whiskey and a stranger’s warm body can’t touch.

Nothing grows in permafrost, but the hopeful seed of a hardy plant may lay in wait beneath the snow for as long as it takes.

It’s years after that ‘goodbye’ and months after the fire before Sam crawls back into Dean’s arms. He’s bigger–taller and wider and more heavily muscled than Dean ever imagined he’d be–but he still fits beside him in a double bed, if not quite the way he used to. It’s a tangle of limbs like overgrown weeds, but Dean’s not complaining.

“I thought this might–” he trails off, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sheets, and Dean doesn’t push, doesn’t hardly breathe as Sam gets closer still. “Maybe I could get some sleep.”

He looks all of fifteen again in his uncertainty, but the years show in the dark circles under his eyes as he looks up and says, “Is this okay?” like it’s even a question.

He still sighs like he used to when Dean slides his fingers back into his hair in wordless answer, Sam’s tired eyes drifting closed as he buries his face in his brother’s neck. Big hands slowly settle into the small of Dean’s back, long fingers spreading out tentatively, new roots carving out a sturdy place in the shifting, warming earth under melting snow.

Dean can almost smell the strawberries on every rhythmic breath as Sam finally sleeps.


End file.
